


Great and Unfortunate Things

by RedSkittleQueen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hannibal being creepy as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 21:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1023839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSkittleQueen/pseuds/RedSkittleQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Lecter muses over a certain Will Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Great and Unfortunate Things

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

 

 **A.N.:** Written to the _Jagten_ _(The Hunt)_ soundtrack.

 

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What is hell? Hell is oneself.  
Hell is alone, the other figures in it  
Merely projections. There is nothing to escape from  
And nothing to escape to. One is always alone.  
― T.S. Eliot

 

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Great and Unfortunate Things

 

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It was a beautiful thing to stand in the same room as his equal.

It was no more than a flicker in the peripheral, a thrill in the pit of the stomach, but Dr. Hannibal Lecter knew he met the man who would one day be his greatest enemy. FBI profiler and Special Investigator Will Graham didn't know it, but Hannibal did. He knew it the moment he walked in Jack Crawford's office and sat feet away from the dark-haired man. The air had been charged, sullen waves of resentment and suspicion radiating from the young Agent like heat escaping a dying body. His entire posture screamed of a wire coiled too tight, thrumming with impatience. He was young, maybe mid thirties, hair unkempt. His cheeks bordered the line between elegant and gaunt. There was the initial refusal to make eye contact— _Dissociation?_ No, Hannibal was quick to amend. Too much awareness. Once pressed, Will himself reiterated the doctor's diagnoses:

“I see too much.”

And Will Graham did see. He saw things few should, eyes shadowed behind those black-rimmed glasses, gaze flitting like caged birds, skittish, never resting on one spot for too long as if afraid to notice an unwanted truth. _Pure empathy—_ that was what Hannibal had told Crawford: the ability to enter anyone's mindset, especially serial killers'. It was more curse than gift, a breath away from insanity. Crawford saw Will as a broken pony, delicate china, but Hannibal saw a genius, a fellow soul. Both understood the thrill of hunting man, both had enjoyed taking life. To say good Will was anything else was rude, and Hannibal, as a rule, did not deal kindly with rudeness.

Hannibal knew he was playing with fire; with a mind that keen, it would only be a matter of time before Will's razor perception turned on him. The doctor welcomed that day. He wanted to see how sharp the mongoose's teeth were.

The doctor stood now in the doorway of Crawford's conference room, unable to help but admire the young Investigator standing in front of the cork board full of crime scene photos. The victim was a sixteen year old boy from Charleston, West Virginia. Someone had removed every inch of his skin, leaving the body on the bed like discarded meat. The endotracheal tube in his throat meant he'd been kept alive throughout the skinning, but Hannibal knew it didn't need mentioning: Will Graham was perfectly aware of the implications. To the untrained eye it appeared as if the photographed flayed corpse transfixed Will in a catatonic state, but the doctor knew better. He knew the other was replaying the boy's death in his head, only this time it was Will who separated the third cervical vertebrae from the column, paralyzing the victim so the flaying could continue at his leisure. Hannibal cocked his head, wondering with a sense of clinical detachment how extensive Will's fantasy went. Did he replay the entire skinning, or just the initial cut? Did he linger over the victim's terror, lovingly drawing out the fixed blade so the victim could see? Could he smell the boy urinate himself? Or could he feel the terrified pulse in the carotids when he gripped the neck for stability?

Will's dull voice broke the heavy silence, aimed at Hannibal despite not yet acknowledging his presence.

“The killer has something to do with the health professions. He'll be a doctor, or a nurse. Maybe a med student.”

“Yes; I figured that much.” Cover blown, Hannibal moved closer, his Italian calfskin shoes soundless on the tiles. It was only then did the younger man turn around, jaw tight and mouth a thin, pressed line. There were heavy, shadowlike bruises under his eyes. Hannibal matched gazes with him; Will held it for all of two seconds before twitching his attention a point off the doctor's shoulder. The flash of the white throat was exquisite.

“He'll be a herpetoculturist as well.”

“Why do you say that, Will?” Hannibal asked, even though he already knew the answer. He was close enough to smell the soap Will used to scrub off the sweat from his nightmares. It was a cheap, nameless brand, and Hannibal resisted the urge to suggest a more suitable cologne.

“He was interested only in the skin; he left everything else untouched. Here, see? He started at the head, like what snakes do. He—he was trying to _shed_ the boy.” Will turned his attention back to the gory spread of photos. Hannibal maneuvered himself so they were side-by-side, observing the same bloodless scene, killer and hunter. The irony was not lost on the doctor, but he kept it to himself. He did not want to provoke his mongoose quite yet, not when there was still so much fun to be had.

“Only reptiles shed. Why make a mammal undergo what is only reptilian in nature?” Hannibal said, but only for Will's benefit. He knew perfectly well why the killer did what he did.

“He wanted the boy to become something more than himself,” Will said, voice tight and low. Disgust coated his words like a tar, roughening the syllables to a growl. Hannibal _hnn_ 'd in contemplation, pleased. The more he observed the young profiler, the more delighted he was becoming. When was the last time he could talk to another human about the same thoughts in his head? A lull fell between them, one neither of them seemed in a rush in breaking. Will had gone still again, eyes lost and turned inward. In the distant hallway someone's high heels clicked on the tiled floor, and beyond that, conversation hummed. One day Hannibal's artwork would be up on that cork board, and Will would be standing in front of them, mesmerized the same way he was now. Hannibal was not in the business of taking unnecessary risks, but dancing under the hunter's nose filled him with unspeakable delight. How long could he play this game of deception? And how would Will react once he found out his true nature? Hannibal enjoyed a private moment as he fantasized how he would stop Will's desperate cry with a palm of one hand and shove the other wrist-deep in the thoracic cavity. Hannibal decided right then and there he'd eat Will's heart in rolled barley and onions.

When the day came, of course. Not a moment sooner.

“Do you dream much, Will?”

“What?” Will shook himself out of his stupor, irritated. Wary. He met the doctor's gaze and this time held it, a wall firmly in place. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Hannibal shrugged with his mouth. “Just a curiosity.”

“What am I, on the couch?” There was bitterness there, the wall keeping Hannibal out. It was the same wall he flashed Crawford whenever the head of the Behavioral Sciences confronted him about a decision. This was not the same Will when he was alone in Hannibal's office, when late night hours and mutual companionship whittled away defenses. The doctor secreted the tidbit of information away for safe-keeping. Already the signs of trust were showing, and Hannibal intended to nurture them.

“We are destined for great and unfortunate things, you and I.”

Will snorted. “Oh, really? Is that so. I assume the 'unfortunate' part comes from all the death and killing we deal with?”

“Perhaps,” the doctor said, placid, “or perhaps that is an aspect of our greatness.”

Will said nothing, haggard face inscrutable. Then he left the office, his footfalls just as soundless as Hannibal's had been.

 

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_fin_


End file.
